


Tuesdays

by Woland



Series: The irrationality of reason [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Broken Hearts, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Silly Boys, So so much angst, Yes there is some fluff too, and lots of whump too, fears, tags may change when part 2 is added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-05-29 00:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15061544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woland/pseuds/Woland
Summary: Watson kisses Holmes on a Tuesday. It goes downhill from there.Or when reason makes one do stupid things and (hopefully) live to regret them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a two-parter and, as with the previous installment, I promise loads of angst, plenty of whump and maybe even some fluff and comfort ;-)
> 
> Enjoy and, please, let me know what you think. Kudos are greatly appreciated, comments are gold and help motivate the muse :)

**Tuesdays**

 

**Part 1**

 

Watson kisses Holmes on a Tuesday.  It’s raining buckets and they are both soaked to the bone by the time they stumble across the threshold of their Baker Street home, giddy and breathless from their impromptu dash for the safety from the downpour and giggling like a couple of teenagers.

The wet tip of Watson’s cane slips on the polished floor and he wobbles in place, arms windmilling in a quest for purchase.  And suddenly Holmes’s arms are around him, a reassuring solid hold.  And he finds himself pressed flush against Holmes’s body, the other man’s warmth searing through his soaked fabric.  And Holmes’s face is right there before him, flushed with exertion, wet hair plastered across his brow, dark eyes twinkling with open mirth…  And Watson suddenly forgets how to breathe.

 

He isn’t sure how it happens, he suspects the rational part of his brain simply blacks out for a moment.  But suddenly his lips are on Holmes’s and it is Holmes who stops breathing, eyes impossibly large and open and… _wanting._

And then they are both rushing up the stairs by some mutual silent agreement, barely able to wait long enough for the door to close behind them before they start ripping off each other’s clothes. Reason ceases to exist for them in that moment in time as they move together in feverish, dizzying, thought-eclipsing harmony.  It’s blissful, and it’s perfect, and it’s right, it feels so goddamn right!...

 

***

 

And then morning comes, lazy and sun-streaked, with Holmes sprawled naked and gorgeous beside him, one arm draped over Watson’s midriff…

 

And Watson panics.

 

He loves Holmes, he realizes.  Loves him so much that the idea of not being with him hurts worse than the Jezail bullet that tore into his thigh all those years ago.  But this can’t go on.  Not in this day and age.  Not with how the law and the general public view a relationship between two men.  Not with what that same law might do to either of them if they were ever found out.

He decides it would be best for both of them if they nip this impossible, unattainable thing between them in the bud.

 

He begins to pull away.  Comes up with hundreds of excuses to be otherwise engaged when Holmes invites him on a case or for a walk.  Buries himself in his work, running off to see clients at all odd times.  Takes care to avoid Holmes as much as possible.

 

It’s pure torment in the beginning, with every inch of his body, every bit of his soul yearning and reaching for Holmes.  But he soldiers on.  Ducks away from the questioning looks in Holmes’s dark, piercing eyes, his heart shattering when he sees the light in those eyes eventually dim in silent resignation, the man’s expression closing off, becoming the cold hard mask he puts up for the rest of the world.

 

It’s for the best, Watson tells himself, even if his soul cries out at the loss of that _other_ Holmes, the beautiful, brilliant, kindhearted and fragile being that Watson had been privileged enough to know intimately, to call a friend, and, for a few blissful, unforgettable (and, sadly, unrepeatable) moments, also his lover.

 

He meets Mary about a week later, the daughter of a patient he was called on to treat.  And she is pretty and charming and safe.  It’s for the best, he thinks again, and lets it happen.

 

***

 

They’ve been on five dates, he and Mary, five proper and pleasant (and boringly safe) dates, when Holmes decides to confront him.  And Watson had been expecting it, had been rehearsing a hundred scenarios of how it was going to go, of what he would say. 

 

Holmes still manages to catch him unawares.

 

“She’s pretty,” Holmes remarks hollowly, voice coming from deep within the semi-darkness of Watson’s room, and Watson barely restrains from jumping at the unexpectedness of it, his hand tightening convulsively on the door knob as he fights the sudden, ridiculously childish urge to run back out. 

 

“Holmes?” He tries for nonchalance.  Walks over to the fireplace, careful to keep his back turned to the detective as he begins to prod intently at the dying embers.  “What are you doing here in the dark?”

 

“Darkness helps me think,” Holmes replies in the same hollow monotone, “helps me see.”

 

The chair Holmes is sitting on creaks when he moves, and Watson stiffens involuntarily, expecting Homes to stand up and approach him.  There’s no further movement, however, and he doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed by that.  He decides to go with relieved.

 

The fire crackles to life, bathing the room in its flickering amber warmth, and Watson risks turning to face his companion.  And frowns in concern at what he sees.

 

Holmes looks… awful, for lack of a better word.  Gaunt and deathly pale, dark smudges of sleeplessness standing out in stark contrast against the pasty skin.  Like he hasn’t eaten, hasn’t rested in weeks.  And Watson thinks that maybe that’s not so far from the truth, and his heart clenches in sympathy and guilt when he thinks of the role he played in that.

 

Holmes shows no outward sign of having noticed his sudden attack of conscience.  Remains slouched tiredly in the chair, head propped on his fisted hand, his hooded gaze lost somewhere in the erratic dance of the shadows cast by the fire onto the opposite wall.

 

“Pretty,” Holmes muses again, bloodless lips twisting into an ugly, rueful smirk, and Watson feels cold tendrils of apprehension coil unpleasantly in his gut.  Braces himself, expecting an attack.

 

He doesn’t have long to wait.

 

“Bland,” Holmes drones out, hooded eyelids slipping lower.  “Unoriginal, submissive, pithless.  And, above all, _safe_.” 

 

He spits the word out like a curse, and Watson flinches from the venom lacing its syllables, at the ever-unerring accuracy of the blow that word (the one word that’s been haunting him all those weeks) delivers.  With Holmes he really shouldn’t have been expecting anything less.

 

“Isn’t that what every respectable gentleman craves these days, my dear Doctor?” Holmes looks toward him finally, eyes dark, unreadable.  “A safe, proper marriage, prim, quiet evenings at home with a mousy colorless creature by his side and lace doilies on his furniture?”  Holmes’s upper lip curls in a sneer, teeth bared.  “Isn’t that right?”

 

There is no lie in Holmes’s words, no exaggeration.  It’s Watson’s own thoughts, his own self-professed need for the life he faintheartedly attempted to convince himself he truly wanted, the tantalizing promise of safety and propriety it offered.  It sounded good in his head, that kind of quiet, uneventful life with Mary, where the worst things he’d have to worry about would be choosing the latest opera to attend or arguing over china patterns.  It sounded desirable, ideal even.

 

Hearing it now from Holmes’s lips, dissected and analyzed with cold, merciless precision, it sounds like a travesty, like nothing more than a pathetic, cowardly delusion tainted with a heavy dose of betrayal.  It burns.  Sears through him in a blazing flash of disenchantment and shame.

 

He retaliates.  Strikes back like a cornered animal, a gambler called on his bluff.

 

“What gives you the right?” he hisses, taking a sharp, determined step forward.  “You sully her name with your baseless observations, when you know nothing of her!”

 

The skin around Holmes’s eyes tightens slightly as if in pain, his lips thinning.  “You are mistaken, my good Doctor,” he says, his voice betraying just the tiniest amount of strain.  “I knew everything there is to know about her the moment I saw her in your company.”  He pauses, lets his eyelids slip momentarily shut.  “Just as I knew your reasons for making that choice.”

 

Watson grits his teeth against the detached calm of Holmes’s all-too-shrewd accusation.  Feels his hands clench into fists at his sides.

“You know _nothing_ of her virtues,” he spits out, latching on to an irrational wave of anger that overcomes him with all the desperation of a man condemned.  Words pour out of him, harsh, untrue, undeserving, and he should cease this insanity, should stop himself before this gets too far, before he loses what little connection he has left to the man.  But it’s like something has torn loose within him, a door ripped completely off its hinges, and he finds himself helpless to hold back the nasty, hurtful deluge. 

“And you know _nothing_ of my choices.  My reasons are my own, Holmes, don’t presume to understand them. I am not a cold-blooded machine, I don’t measure others by your passionless yardstick of reason.  I’m drawn to people for their emotional merits, and, for your information, Miss Morton fulfills my emotional needs in ways you couldn’t _possibly_ imagine!”

 

“Whereas _I_ am found wanting.”

 

There’s no heat behind Holmes’s words, no anger, just a simple observation, a dispassionate (if somewhat strained) statement of fact that crashes over Watson’s defensive anger like a bucket of ice-cold water.

 

“Can’t you just…”  Watson swallows dryly, makes a helpless, almost desperate gesture with his hand.  Cringes at the now undeniably desperate note he hears in his own voice as he all but implores, “Can’t you just accept that I’ve moved on and… do the same?”

 

Holmes doesn’t say anything for the longest time, continues to stare broodingly into the flickering shadows.  Then he rises from the chair, slowly, almost reluctantly so. 

 

“I’ve observed it,” he says, taking equally slow, measured steps toward Watson, advancing closer with each softly cast word.  And Watson has to fight the urge to back away, to beat a hasty, cowardly retreat before the feverishly bright, piercing stare of Holmes’s eyes. 

“I rationalized it,” Holmes continues in the same muted tones.  “I resigned myself to it.” 

 

And he is standing right before Watson now.  Impossibly, tantalizingly close.  And Watson can’t move, finds himself frozen in a helpless stupor like a fly caught in a spider web, pinned hopelessly in place by the dark, knowing gaze.  “But I refuse to accept it.”

 

Watson blinks, forces another swallow past a sandpaper dry throat.  “W…why?” he stammers out inanely.

 

And feels the simple, quietly spoken answer that follows rip straight through his heart, leaving behind a gaping, hemorrhaging hole. 

 

“Because I loved you first.”

 

Holmes watches him unblinking in the strained, deafening silence that follows his admission, as if awaiting something, a response, a reaction of some kind.  But Watson can’t say anything if he tried, his tongue unresponsive, his breath lodged painfully in his lungs.

 

And gradually the blaze of Holmes’s stare dims, shadowed by disappointment, his face growing paler still.  He nods mutely to himself, steps back, lips twisting in a bitter, pained little smile. 

 

“Forgive me, old boy,” he says, voice sounding strained almost to the point of breaking.  “I have completely lost track of time, and I have a case to get back to.” 

 

He turns away from Watson, heads toward the door.  Pauses there, shoulders hunched.  “Goodbye, Watson.”

And then he’s gone.

 

 END Part I


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the story got away from me a bit, and it is now 3 chapters instead of 2. Other than that, everything should be on track :)

**Chapter 2**

He doesn’t see Holmes for the next few days.  It doesn’t concern him at first, not really.  He knows how obsessed the man becomes when he’s on a case, how consumed with the pursuit of the clues.  How he can go on for days without food or drink or rest.  Realizes, too, that Holmes is likely to be actively avoiding him now as well.  Not that he can blame the man.

He tries to make himself busy, too.  Visiting patients, taking walks with Mary, searching for a new flat.  And, yes, it may be a coward’s way out, but he told himself he needed to move on, and he can’t very well do so, can’t start planning for a new life with Mary if he doesn’t even have a place of his own.  Besides, he tells himself ruefully, he doubts Holmes would want to be anywhere near him anymore. 

 

Again he tells himself that it’s for the best.  That they can make a clean break now, he and Holmes.  That they can both move on with their lives.

 

Still, their last conversation gnaws at him, a painful, festering wound, and he finds himself thinking about Holmes at the most inopportune times.  Finds himself unable, perhaps even unwilling to stop.

 

***

 

He’s sitting across from Mary in a nice, cozy restaurant, trying his best to enjoy the peaceful, romantic ambience, the beautiful company.  Trying his best to pay attention as she recounts to him some funny incident from her day.  Only his heart isn’t in it.  And soon Mary’s features dissolve before him, and it is Holmes’s smiling face that fills his vision, the low, seductive rumble of Holmes’s voice that drifts into his ears.  And he sees Holmes’s lips, both soft and rough and so, so inviting.  Feels his palms tingle at the memory of Holmes’s skin underneath them, at the scratch of Holmes’s stubble against his fingertips….

 

He squeezes his eyes shut, rubs a shaking hand across his brow, willing the haunting images away.  Plasters a pale mockery of a smile on his face, shrugging in feigned nonchalance at Mary’s concerned questions.  It’s just a headache, he tells her, nodding in agreement when she tsks worriedly over his inordinately busy work schedule as of late.  Shamelessly uses that worry to excuse himself from the rest of their evening and return home, allegedly to catch up on some much needed sleep.

 

It isn’t sleep that draws him, hurried and purposeful, back to Baker Street, however.  It’s an urgent, desperate need to see Holmes.  Because as much as he has struggled these past few weeks to push Holmes out of his mind, his heart refuses to let him go.  It longs for him, cries, bleeds.  And Watson feels drained from the effort of holding himself back, he can’t keep fighting against it, he just can’t.  He and Holmes… they need to talk.

 

He isn’t surprised to find that Holmes isn’t home, he was expecting as much from all the previous times he’d come home to find his flatmate absent.  This time is different, however.  This time he won’t be as complacent about it.  This time he’ll make sure the man does not slip by him when he does come back.  And to ensure that, he decides to recruit an accomplice to warn him the minute Holmes crosses the threshold – their ever-suffering landlady.

 

Mrs. Hudson’s reply draws him up short.

 

“I’d love to oblige, Doctor, but the man hasn’t been back since Friday last,” she tells him dryly, looking up at him briefly from a large brisket she’s busy seasoning on her kitchen counter. 

 

“Not since Friday?” Watson echoes numbly, feeling the first stirrings of worried apprehension deep in his gut.  “But that’s three days ago…”

 

Mrs. Hudson shrugs, unconcerned, her attention once again solely on the task before her, and the air in the small kitchen becomes steeped in an eye-watering mixture of pepper and garlic.  “That man has been absolutely impossible lately,” she huffs, lips pursing in obvious displeasure.  “If you ask me, we could all use a bit of a break.”

 

Watson doesn’t say anything to that, doesn’t tell her that he and he alone is most likely to blame for whatever foul mood that Holmes had unleashed upon her.  Simply turns around and walks back to his room, feeling the weight of Holmes’s absence press heavier and heavier upon him with every step. 

 

What if Holmes is gone for good, he wonders.  Packed up and left the city to get as far away from Watson as he possibly could. 

 

_No_ , he dismisses the thought just as quickly as it comes.   Because Holmes’s whole life is here in London.  He loves this smog-smothered city with its seedy underbelly and its endless winding labyrinths of cobblestone.  He’s perfectly in his element here; he wouldn’t leave it for the world.

 

And that’s when another, darker thought settles in.  Because Holmes was on a case, wasn’t he.  A case of which Watson never bothered to find out the specifics.  And what if there was a murder involved?  What if the criminal Holmes was pursuing was as dangerous as he was cunning? Despite his occasional protests to the contrary, Holmes wasn’t immune to danger, and there’ve been more than a few occasions, in fact, when, had Watson not been there, Holmes may very well have ended up seriously hurt or worse.  But now Watson wasn’t there, wasn’t watching Holmes’s back like he was supposed to.  And what if… what if… 

 

He collapses onto his bed, his legs too wobbly all of a sudden, too weak to hold him up.  Feels his heart moan in distress as fear wraps its icy-cold talons around it, squeezing hard.  If something happened, if Holmes is… if he’s….   And Watson… Watson had pushed him away.  Watson let him leave thinking he didn’t love him, thinking he’d been replaced, callously, easily.  Thinking he wasn’t good enough…. And Watson never told him that none of that was true.

 

He swallows convulsively, an unexpected swell of nausea gripping his throat.  Passes a shaking hand over his mouth.  He can’t think like that, he tells himself.  He can’t.  He _won’t._   And he can’t stay sitting here, shaking and useless, either.  He needs to move.  Needs to go out there and start looking for Holmes and not come back until he finds him.  Safe and sound.  He needs to…

 

A knock on the door interrupts his musings and he looks up sharply, manages a hoarse, strained, “Yes?”

 

“Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice comes from behind the door.  “You have a visitor.” 

 

He pinches his lips in annoyance, shakes his head, even though she can’t see him.  “It’s late, Mrs. Hudson,” he calls back out, as polite a dismissal as he can manage with his nerves being as shaken as they are.  It isn’t a lie, to be fair.  The clock is already pushing ten.  And though he has been known to make house calls well past this hour even as recently as last week, right now, wrought with worry over Holmes, he can’t get his mind to focus on anything but the task of finding his friend.   “Tell them it’s past my visiting hours and to come back tomorrow.”

 

He can hear some shuffling, a muffled conversation.  Then Mrs. Hudson’s voice comes through again, “I’m afraid he insists, Doctor.”

 

He pushes angrily up off the bed, stalks over to the door, yanking it open with more force than necessary and fully intent on giving his importunate and very much unwanted visitor a piece of his mind.  And freezes, testy words he was about to unleash dying on his tongue as he takes in the face of his unlikely visitor.

 

“Good evening, Doctor,” Mycroft Holmes nods coldly in greeting, seemingly unperturbed by Watson’s shocked, open-mouthed stare.  “I do apologize for the lateness of the hour, but there is an urgent matter I require your assistance with, and I’m afraid it cannot wait until morning.”  He plops his top hat back on his head, turns dismissively toward the stairs.  “If you would follow me, please.  And grab your medical bag.”  And he proceeds to rattle his impressive bulk down the stairs without bothering to wait for Watson’s response.

 

“Where are we going?” Watson asks as he climbs into the awaiting cab, settling himself on the bench across from Mycroft.

 

The man does not deign him with a response.  Knocks sharply on the front wall of the cab, informing the driver that they are ready to go, then sags deeper into his seat and confines himself to staring blankly out the window at the night-washed scenery, his face – a pasty, unreadable mask.

 

“Is this about Sherlock?” Watson tries again, daring to voice that one tendril of hope he’s been clinging to from the moment he saw Mycroft Holmes on his doorstep.

 

Mycroft remains silent, but there’s barely perceptible tension around his eyes and Watson knows he’s hit the right trail.  He shifts closer then, his posture open, imploring. 

 

“Please,” he starts, stretching his neck to try and get the other man to look his way.  “I made a mistake, a terrible, terrible mistake, and I need a chance to fix it.  I would do _anything_ for a chance to fix it.  I-”

 

“I received a note from Sherlock four days ago,” Mycroft cuts him off, still staring resolutely out the darkened window.   “He wanted me to come to the Victoria Station the following evening to meet his 10:30 train from Woking.”  Mycroft blinks, the corners of his mouth drooping into a tired, troubled pout.  “I waited until every last passenger descended onto the platform.  Sherlock wasn’t among them.”  The left corner of the mouth pinches, the pale cheek twitching.  “I knew my brother, I knew from the way the note was worded that he requested my presence there for a reason, I knew he had to be on that train.  So I went on board.” 

 

Mycroft pauses again, the larger man’s oddly heavy breaths – the only sounds disturbing the break-ready tension inside the cab, and Watson feels his own breathing come to an abrupt, stuttering halt at the man’s very next chilling words.

 

“I found him by the door of his compartment, senseless.  I believe he was trying to join me outside when he succumbed to his injuries.”

 

“Did he… is he…” Watson cuts himself off, digs his teeth hard into the inside of his cheek to keep the words he cannot possibly voice (not ever, no, he can’t, he won’t) from slipping past.  

 

Mycroft turns away from the window, his keen, heavy-bagged eyes meeting Watson’s for the first time, and Watson reads worry there mixed with displeasure.  “He’s been in my care these past three days, Doctor,” he says, voice taking on that same coldness he greeted Watson with back on Baker Street.  Raises his hand, forestalling the question Watson didn’t even have a chance to ask.  “He only had a few lucid moments, and during one of those he requested specifically that I do not contact you.  I honored his request.”  The pale, washed out gray of his eyes darkens a fraction, his gaze growing hard.  “The only reason you’re here now is because Sherlock has not been getting any better.  If anything, his condition worsened, and my personal physician has admitted to his inability to do more for him.”

 

Watson nods, swallowing down the bitter pill of Holmes’s (rightfully deserved) rejection.  Drops his gaze to the boot-scuffed floor of the carriage, his mind whirring and sputtering in concert with his heart.  Holmes is hurt.  Badly.  Possibly dying.  Holmes doesn’t want to see him.  Holmes may die resenting him, and he may never get a chance to–

 

A hand, big and heavy, lands on his knee, startling him out of the dark whirlwind of his thoughts, and he forces himself to look up, forces himself to meet Mycroft’s gaze unflinching. 

 

Intense, fog-gray eyes narrow at him in silent contemplation, eyebrows pulling together in a thoughtful frown.

 

“I love my brother very much, Doctor,” he says, low and dangerous, just as the cab pulls to a stop.  “I hate to see him in pain, and I can tell that whatever occurred between the two of you has pained him greatly.  The last thing I wish to do is cause him even more suffering by bringing to him the one person responsible for his internal anguish.”  He purses his lips, leans further into Watson’s space, never breaking the contact.  “But he’s dying and you are one of the best physicians in London, and I’m running out of options.  So I am willing to risk my brother’s emotional interest for the sake of saving his life.  Once he’s on the mend, however, should he request to be relieved from your presence, you will do as he pleases or, so help me God, I will make you regret you were ever born.  I hope you understand.”

 

With that he rises abruptly and steps heavily out of the cab.  And Watson’s strained “I do” is lost in the hollow quiet of the carriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review and let me know what you, guys, think


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boy… So, I started out saying this was gonna be a 2-chapter story, then I changed my tune to say I was gonna wrap it up in 3. I am now having to amend this statement once again *ducks head in shame*. Yes, it shall be 4 chapters. For real now. I can literally see the light at the end of the tunnel LOL Only one more chapter left.
> 
> Kudos and comments are still very much welcomed and appreciated :)
> 
> And now... on to whump *evil grin*

**Chapter 3**

 

A pair of familiar trousers, stained in random blotches of mud-crusted brown and suspiciously rust-colored red, is the first thing he sees as he walks into the room following Mycroft’s lead.  One pant leg is ripped to just above the knee, the flesh underneath it wrapped in layers of coarse cloth, soaked in plaster.  _Broken bones_ , his mind catalogues automatically even as he moves toward to the bed, apprehension turning the inside of his mouth to ash.

 

Holmes isn’t alone in the room.  There’s a gray-haired man in his shirtsleeves hovering at the head of the bed, Holmes’s wrist clasped between his fingers as he tracks the movement of the second hand on his watch.  A moment later he places Holmes’s arm back onto the mattress with an unhappy frown, moves up to place a wet rag on the man’s sweat-beaded brow.

 

Holmes lies perfectly still during these ministrations, his eyes closed, the too-too thin chest, left bare between the ripped edges of the formerly white shirt, rising and falling at an all-too-rapid pace. 

 

“Any change, Doctor?” Mycroft asks beside him, and Watson doesn’t even need to see the other physician’s bleak countenance to know what the response is going to be.

 

“His temperature is still climbing,” the man responds, regretfully almost.  “If this continues any longer, I’m afraid that…” He trails off, seeing something in Mycroft’s expression. Gives a minute, helpless shrug.  “I am sorry.”

 

Watson takes this as his cue. 

 

Willing his legs not to tremble, he takes a determined step forward, sits carefully down on the bed beside Holmes, letting his eyes and hands roam over the man’s body, cataloguing every cut, every bruise, every trace of violence inflicted upon his friend.  The pale sunken cheeks flushed with fever; the broken, swollen skin of the knuckles; a white bandage wrapped across Holmes’s torso, corresponding perfectly to a wide, blood-spattered gash in the fabric of his sweat-soaked shirt; another bandage, larger and thicker, resting against Holmes’s left shoulder, the shirt sleeve there coated red.  

 

He reaches for that second bandage, carefully lifts up the edge, frowning unhappily at the red, inflamed skin underneath.  “Have you disinfected this?” he asks brusquely, replacing the bloodied cloth.  Moves to cradle Holmes’s wrist, feeling little reassurance from the thready, canary-rapid beat against his fingertips where he lets them rest over the pulse point. 

 

The older physician glances briefly up at Mycroft as if asking for permission, responds with a slightly indignant huff of an offended professional.  “Of course, I did!”

 

“And you proceeded to suture the wound after disinfecting it,” Watson concludes, reaching once again for the bloodied bandage.  He peels it off completely, exposing a row of ugly, pus-covered stitches.  Narrows his gaze as a distant memory flickers across his mind, sparking a straw of an idea that he latches on to with all the desperation of a drowning man.

 

“Did you debride the wound beforehand?” he inquires, gently palpating the red, fever-heated edges.  Holmes flinches unconsciously under his touch, pale face scrunching up in pain, and he pulls his hand away, a useless apology falling from his lips as he cuts a quick worried gaze to his friend’s face.

 

“The injury was caused by a knife not a bullet,” Mycroft’s physician bristles, his voice taking on a nasal, condescending tone.  Adds like it should be self-evident, “I see no reason to dig around for metal fragments where a priori there can _be_ none.  As a _doctor_ , I should think you would agree.”

 

Watson ignores the jab, contemplates the wound in silence, the right corner of his lip pinched in thought.  “There was a chap back in my army days,” he muses quietly, hand ghosting over the uneven track of sutures across the raised skin. “Got into a drunken brawl one night with another soldier at our encampment and ended up knifed in the ribs for his stupidity.  When I pulled the knife out to suture the wound, I noticed that the tip of the blade was missing.  Turns out the knife hit the bone with so much force that the tip broke off and remained stuck in the rib even when the rest of the blade was pushed further into his ribcage.”

 

“You suspect the same thing happened here.”

 

Watson turns toward Holmes’s brother, having nearly forgotten the man’s presence.  Shrugs carefully.  “It’s hard to know for sure without the benefit of seeing the original weapon, but… a foreign body _would_ account for the lingering infection.  If the wound is deep enough that the knife could have hit the shoulder blade, there’s a good chance that the tip could have broken off and remained in the wound even after the weapon was removed.” 

 

“You’re not seriously suggesting we rip open the stitches and start digging in the wound in search of some mysterious blade fragment!  On a _could_?” The older physician throws up his hands in indignation, directs an almost desperate gaze at Mycroft.  “You can’t possibly approve of this insanity!”

 

Mycroft hesitates, his face creased in a bleak scowl as he stares down at his brother’s flushed features, the fingers of his large hands clenching and unclenching nervously at his sides.

 

Watson decides to take charge.

 

“You brought me here because you were running out of options,” he reminds Mycroft, his voice straining over the painfully ominous words.  “I am giving you one, and if there’s even the slightest chance that I’m right about this, then we owe it to your brother to try.  The longer we wait, the higher the chance that he will… that he will not survive.”   

 

“The only thing this would accomplish is cause your brother more unnecessary pain,” the other physician chimes in, and Watson never wished to physically shut anyone up more than he does now.  “The probability of this man being right is virtually nonexistent.  Why would–?”

 

“As Doctor Watson just so helpfully pointed out,” Mycroft interjects finally, his heavy-lidded gaze never leaving his brother’s face, “I brought him here for a reason.  As for how probable his idea is…”  He diverts his attention momentarily away from Holmes, throws a pale twitch of a smile Watson’s way.  “As my brother so often likes to repeat, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable…”

 

“…is the truth,” Watson finishes for him with a curt nod of thanks.

 

***

 

Holmes comes to with a violent jolt minutes into the operation, just when Watson’s blood-slicked fingers scrape against the edge of something sharp and metal buried deep inside the wound.  And Watson isn’t surprised by this, not at all – no amount of laudanum could even hope to dull the kind of pain this torturous procedure is putting Holmes through.  But the sharp movement jostles him, makes him lose his grip on the metal tip, and he curses, loud and sharp.  Snaps his gaze to Holmes’s brother, all but snarling at him to, “Hold him down! For the love of God, keep him still!”

 

Mycroft’s physician has left the room long ago, having refused to take part in what he termed to be a barbaric affront to modern medicine, so it’s just him and Mycroft now.  And Mycroft isn’t exactly his ideal choice in assisting for something like this, but Watson can’t be too picky.  The wound is bleeding too much again, and Holmes is writhing in pain, and he’s simply running out of time to fix any of this.  So he doesn’t look Mycroft’s way anymore, doesn’t shift his attention away from his task for another second.  Does his best to tune it all out – the way Holmes’s body trembles at his fingertips, straining with the effort of escaping the unimaginable pain; the way Holmes’s voice breaks hoarsely as he begs him to stop ( _“J-Jo…John, please!”_ ), the rasped out pleas and the awful screams of agony interspersed with them slicing straight through Watson’s heart, making him desperate to drop it all and run the hell out of this room, where the very air seems infused with a nauseatingly overwhelming, metallic tang of blood; the suspicious, uncharacteristic tremble in Mycroft’s voice as he shushes his brother, spilling forth a litany of useless words of comfort; the sweat beading up on Watson’s own forehead, droplets running down the side of his face, stinging his eyes (and he won’t ever admit that not all the burn he feels in his eyes is due to sweat alone); the growing sense of nausea at the sight of Holmes’s blood _(so much of it, too, too much)_ coating his hands…. 

 

He needs to finish this, is all he can think as he manages to finally pinch the blade tip with his tweezers and starts to pull.  Needs to get this goddamn fragment out of his friend’s body and hope that he’s right, that removing it will help him get this deadly infection under control.  _Please, please, dear GOD, let him be right about this!_ Because if he isn’t, if he’s putting Holmes through all this torture for nothing, if Holmes still dies, he isn’t sure if he’ll be able to go on.

Slowly, lest his trembling grip should fail and he drop the fragment back into the open wound, he pulls it out.  Tosses the damn thing to the floor with more force than necessary the moment it’s clear of his friend’s body.  Grabs for the bottle of carbolic acid, allowing himself a fraction of a second to wipe his stinging eyes on the sleeve of his shirt.  Pours a generous amount of the liquid into the wound, flinching as from a physical blow at the sharp bark of agony his action tears out of Holmes’s throat.  

 

_He can’t stop now, not yet, not yet._

 

His fingers shake too damn much at this point, so he clenches them into fists, fingernails digging hard enough to pierce the skin of his palms.  Takes a long, steadying breath.  Picks up a surgical needle and thread. 

 

“Almost done there, old cock,” he murmurs, leaning over his patient once again, his throat vise-tight and parchment-dry.  “Almost done.”

 

And when it finally _is_ done and the bloodied needle is tossed carelessly into the tray, Watson lurches up and away from the bed, stumbles to the nearby bathroom and retches violently into the sink.

 

***

 

It is on the floor of the bathroom that Mycroft finds him several minutes later, propped up against the wall in an exhausted, awkward heap right where his legs gave up on him.  His cheeks are wet with tears, and there are traces of snot and vomit running down his chin, but he can’t bring himself to care.  Can’t bring himself to move.  

 

Mycroft lingers a moment in the doorway – a towering shadow over Watson’s semi-reclined form.  Then steps quietly into the small room, lowers his considerable bulk onto the edge of the tub.

 

“He’s… asleep, I think…. Or unconscious again.” Mycroft’s uncharacteristically strained voice draws Watson’s attention to his face and he’s startled to find the same haunted look in the man’s eyes that he saw in the mirror only moments ago, to see traces of drying tears on the long, flabby cheeks.

 

Watson manages a small nod.  “I’ll check on him in a bit,” he promises, his voice sounding alien to his own ears, rasping painfully against his dry throat as if he hasn’t spoken in weeks.  Adds in a lame attempt at reassurance he himself doesn’t feel, “He’s gonna… it’ll help.  It should help.”

 

Mycroft considers him silently, the keen, penetrating gaze reminding Watson so much of Holmes he finds he has to look away lest he start crying again.  The older Holmes drops his gaze, lets his chin fall onto his chest, lapsing into an uneasy, brooding silence.

 

“Do you know… can you tell me what happened to him?” Watson asks, mostly because he wants _(no, needs)_ to break this oppressive silent gloom, to snap both Mycroft and himself out of this debilitating, depressive malaise.

 

Mycroft stays silent for a long time, half-hooded eyes staring sightlessly at the tiled floor.  “I can only tell you some of what I know and what I deduced,” he says finally, and there’s a caution in his voice, a reluctance almost.  “He was helping a certain banker track down a particularly large sum of money that went missing under mysterious circumstances.  The level of organization behind the crime and the amount of stolen money led him to suspect that there was a bigger game afoot.  His investigation led him to a group of political radicals in Woking and an assassination plot that he successfully foiled.”

 

“An assassination plot?” Watson gasps, incredulous.  Because it’s ridiculous, it’s outlandish, it’s–

 

“Things are coming to a head in Europe,” Mycroft remarks philosophically, seemingly oblivious to Watson’s reaction.  “Various forces jostling for position.  Conflict is inevitable.  And Sherlock knows that.  Knows that he has only postponed the inevitable.  But he saved a life, even if temporarily.  And bought our country and the rest of Europe a few more years of peace while he was at it.”  He chuckles humorously, shakes his head as if in wonder.  Adds in a kind of wistfully regretful tone that strikes an equally wistful, melancholy chord deep in Watson’s heart, “He always did have a flare for the dramatics my brother.”

 

“He must have known these people are dangerous,” Watson sits up abruptly, a sudden, irrational flare of anger momentarily burning through the thick, heavy veil of mental and physical exhaustion.  “Why did he go after them alone? Why not involve the police or–”

 

Mycroft’s lips twitch – a slightly pitying, condescending smirk.  “Our police, my dear Doctor, cannot always be relied on in matters of national security, as I’m sure you yourself are well aware.  And Sherlock needed to get closer to these individuals to learn all he could.”

 

“He went undercover,” Watson surmises, a surge of already familiar acridly nauseating guilt burning the pitiful spark of anger away.  Because he should have been there, should have backed up his friend.  Because Holmes should never have gone into such a dangerous situation alone.

 

“As well as that worked for him,” Mycroft hedges with an odd shrug, and Watson frowns at him in confusion, his mind too sluggish, too overwrought to catch up.  “Radicals are a suspicious lot,” Mycroft clarifies.  “They would have been wary of any new faces, especially those asking questions.”

 

“He was found out,” Watson murmurs, the realization turning his insides to ice.  Runs the back of his hand across his mouth, noticing with dismay the way it trembles against his lips.

 

“As he suspected he might be,” the older man confirms.  “Hence the note he sent me.”  He let out a deep, heavy sigh, his long face creasing into a grimace of uncharacteristically raw concern.  “I believe he was assaulted shortly after sending it out.  Escaped by jumping out the window.  Rather unsuccessfully, as he told me.  Had to hobble the rest of the way to the train station on a broken leg.”

 

“And bleeding out,” Watson adds hollowly, and Mycroft nods his assent.

 

“And that, too.”

 

And Watson thinks of Holmes – alone in a hostile setting, sending that note to his brother, knowing with that all-discerning deductive brain of his that he was about to be discovered.  Thinks of him running for his life, alone and in pain.  Thinks of the reason that he sent that note to Mycroft, reaching out to the only person he thought might still care enough about him to help. Thinks back to Mycroft’s damning words from before – _“he requested specifically that I do not contact you”_.   

 

Tears of shame and anguish burn at the back of his eyes, and Watson squeezes them shut, leans his head back, resting it tiredly against the cold wall.  _How did this happen, he wonders.  How did he fail his friend so badly._   

 

“That is a question only you can answer, Doctor,” comes a quiet response, and Watson jolts badly at the realization that he must have spoken out loud.

 

Mycroft rises slowly, moves to walk back out into the room.  Then halts in the doorway, shoulders hunched.  “I know you care about him, Doctor,” he says and the reluctant admission somehow sounds simultaneously like a warning.  “Your recent actions made that much obvious.  But you need to figure out what it is you want from him and figure it out fast.  My brother is not a machine, Doctor, no matter what those ignoramuses out there claim.  The ability of his body to endure the abuse that both he and the others heap on it far exceeds the ability of his heart to do the same.”  He turns his head, levels Watson with a long, hard stare that spears Watson in place, rattles him more than he would like to admit.  “It won’t survive another hit,” he adds cryptically.  “You would do well to remember that.”

 

And then he walks out, leaving a speechless and thoroughly shaken Watson in his wake.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @somethingjustsouthofbrilliance.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it’s finally over (for real this time). If anyone is interested in more stories for the Holmes/Watson collection, let me know. I will gladly take prompts. Otherwise, this will be it for my Holmes/Watson writing for the time being. I’ll be switching gears back to Marvel.

**Chapter 4**

 

Watson is running.  Tripping over his own feet in a hurry to reach an ever-elusive glimmer of light that flickers faintly at the very edge of a thick forest of darkness that surrounds him.  Darkness whispers soothingly to him, urges him to slow down his foolish, futile pursuit, to lean against a sturdy, dependable trunk of one of its many trees, to rest.  _You wanted this_ , it reminds him.  _This bleak, colorless quiet, this peaceful, predictable slumber of existence – it is what you have wished for._

Branches wrap around him – a gentle but unyielding hold, pull him back against the trunk of a tree.  _Stay_ , darkness compels him, its breath cold against his neck.  _You are tired of running.  Nothing will ever disturb you here.  Rest. Sleep._

And he is tired, it’s true, his legs trembling, his lungs burning from exertion.  And it is tempting, oh so tempting to give in, to rest his weary bones if only for a while, to close his eyes, to sleep.  But he needs that glimmer of light, he knows it.  Can feel it with every fiber of his being.  So he struggles against the ensnaring grasp, because that light is moving further away, growing fainter with each passing second.  And he needs to get to it.  Desperately.  Before it disappears altogether.

 

_Let it go_ , darkness insists even as he finally manages to break free of its hold and lurches toward the enchanting glow up ahead.  _You don’t need it, you’ll only get burned._ He ignores it, sprints the few remaining yards separating him from the forest’s edge, bursting triumphantly into the open meadow beyond. 

 

But the light flickers regretfully as he reaches for it, his fingers just barely grazing its achingly familiar golden warmth, wavers and goes out, plunging him whole into the awaiting blackness.

 

***

 

Watson wakes with a gasp, his chest tight with misery.  Blue eyes, haunted by the remnants of the disturbingly prophetic dream, flit wildly around the room, grasping for the familiarity of his surroundings as the dream gradually fades away.   Calmer now, he drops his gaze down to the bed he’s kept vigil beside for the past week and… freezes, finding himself under a hooded, wary scrutiny of a pair of familiar whiskey-brown eyes.

 

“Holmes!” he lurches forward, nearly toppling off his chair in the excitement of seeing Holmes awake, finally, after days and days of breath-bated waiting and despair-tinged hope.  Grabs for the glass of water on the bedside table, reaching with his other hand for Holmes’s good shoulder with the intent to lift him up a bit to help him drink.  But something in Holmes’s expression stays his hand, and he hesitates, drink in hand, suddenly uncertain that his touch would be welcome.

 

Holmes regards him silently from under the thick mesh of eyelashes, nods his permission, his gaze shifting hungrily to the glass.  And Watson moves in, does his best to control the slight tremble of his fingers as he helps prop his friend up while he drinks.

 

“I thought I’d dreamed it – seeing you here,” Holmes rasps out, leaning exhaustedly back onto his pillows, and there’s a kind of cool detachment in his voice that cuts Watson to his very core, leaves his heart a chilled, quivering mess.  “I remember telling Mycroft my feelings with regards to your presence here.  I was rather clear, I believe.”

 

Watson swallows, mouth dry as the desert sands of Kandahar.  There was so much he wanted to say to Holmes, so many arguments he had planned out in his head, but it all became jumbled in the wake of his nightmare and he struggles to string together the proper words. 

 

“You… you were dying,” he fumbles, hands twitching helplessly in his lap.  “Your brother thought–”

 

Holmes hums in understanding, lets his eyes slip closed.  “So it appears you saved my life yet again, my dear Doctor,” he murmurs tiredly, and there’s a pained grimace that flickers briefly across his features, and Watson isn’t at all sure the pain is physical alone.  “I’m grateful.”  He blinks his eyes open again, favors Watson with a look of the same cold scrutiny that Watson had more than once seen him direct at the clients he suspected were lying to him.  “But your job is done now.  I am no longer in danger of expiring any time soon.  You are free to leave.”

 

“No, I–” Watson scrambles clumsily for words, as desperate as a drunk man is for purchase when he feels the ground slip from under his feet.  “I can stay… I should… I should stay.”

 

“I insist.” 

 

The simple, hollow-voiced demand is like a bucket of ice-cold water over Watson’s attempts, what few arguments he had remaining leaving him in a rush.  He blinks rapidly at his friend, feeling suddenly, hopelessly bereft – a storm-ravaged sailboat adrift at sea.  He searches Holmes’s face for some sign of hesitation there, a concession, an opening he could latch on to.  But Holmes is no longer looking his way, his gaze lost somewhere in the distance above Watson’s shoulder, and there’s nothing left for Watson to say. 

 

He stands slowly, numb with defeat.  “I’ll let your brother know you’re awake,” he offers lamely, desperate to find reasons to stay and knowing with a kind of sinking certainty that he has no choice but to leave.

 

Holmes flicks his gaze back to him, a knowing, rueful smile pulling at the corners of his lips.  “No need, my dear Watson,” he murmurs, and there’s a shadow of something like pity in those dark brown eyes as he nods at someone behind Watson’s back.  “He already knows.”

 

***

 

Watson comes barging into his flatmate’s room at Baker Street two days later, and he would have been exceedingly proud of himself for managing to hold out from speaking to Holmes even that long if it weren’t for the fact that he is so absolutely livid with the man that his fury simply overshadows all else.

 

“What, in God’s name, were you thinking?” he blurts out the moment he steps over the threshold, his ire rising at the sight of the detective, face pinched and ghostly pale, slumped in his favorite chair at an awkward sideways angle to avoid putting pressure on his injured shoulder.

 

Holmes quirks an eyebrow at him, somehow managing to look unimpressed despite the obvious pain.  “You have got to be more specific, old boy,” he drawls out calmly, stretching out his casted leg before him with a poorly hidden wince.  “I’ve done nothing _but_ think from the moment I woke up today.”

 

Watson grits his teeth, digs deep for patience.  “I spent the last two days holed up in my practice, hoping that work would distract me enough that I could keep myself from running back over to your brother’s place and beg him for permission to see you.”

 

“I see that didn’t work out so well,” Holmes remarks, amused, and Watson feels his hands curl into fists at his sides.

 

“I went to your brother’s,” he hisses, “because I needed to make sure you were alright and because there was something I needed to tell you that I couldn’t hold back any longer.  And then I find that not only were you not recuperating in bed as I fully expected you to be given the devastating nature of your injuries, but that you have somehow convinced him to take you back to Baker Street!”  Watson’s voice rises as he speaks, words heated with righteous fury, and he takes a small amount of satisfaction in seeing Holmes flinch at the volume.  “What were you thinking?”

 

Holmes narrows his gaze at him, humming in thought.  “You needn’t have worried yourself on my behalf, Doctor,” he declares finally, his voice dull, subdued.  “I recuperated enough.”

 

“Enough, huh,” Watson takes a step closer, stabbing an angry hand toward his bandaged shoulder.  “Is that your expert medical opinion?  Would you mind demonstrating your miraculous recovery for me then?”

 

It’s a challenge, and Watson should know better than that, because Holmes has never backed away from one.  But there’s a small sadistic part of him that pushes him forward, pulls the words out of his mouth, as if hoping to goad Holmes into accepting his defeat.

 

Holmes’s lips twitch at the dare, the fingers of his right hand scrubbing sharply at the days-old stubble coating his sunken cheeks.  “What would you have me do, Doctor?” he challenges in kind, an insane spark of defiance glimmering in the dark brown depths.  “A little song and dance number perhaps?  Or would a simple walking demonstration suffice?”  And then, before Watson has a chance to react, he pushes himself up and out of the chair and begins to hobble unsteadily in the direction of the fireplace. 

 

He doesn’t make it far.  And Watson sees the exact moment it happens, the moment Holmes’s steely determination fails him, incapable of allowing the man to power through the crushing onslaught of pain.  He sways sharply, his face paling further still, becoming a terrifying, agony-twisted mockery of a death mask, and Watson has but a split second to rush forward to anchor his friend before his legs fail him completely.

 

“You fool, you utter, utter fool!” he hisses, arms wrapped with careful strength around Holmes’s torso as the man slumps boneless against him, eyes slammed shut.  This close he becomes uncomfortably aware of the unhealthy heat of fever still coming off Holmes’s skin, can feel the minute tremors of pain wracking his body, and the wave of worry-borne anger is nearly enough to drive him to his knees.  “What the hell are you trying to prove?”

 

Holmes doesn’t respond right away, staying perfectly still in Watson’s arms, his breaths coming in short, pitiful gasps as he struggles to get his body back under control.  Then, feeling apparently steady enough, he straightens out slowly, putting his weight back on his legs, pushes against Watson’s hold with his good hand, silently asking him to let go.  Backs away a few steps when Watson does, coming to rest with his back against the mantel.

 

“Merely that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, my dear Doctor,” he says quietly, a stubborn set to his jaw.  “And I don’t need your services, however invaluable, for the rest of my convalescence.”  He smiles, a pained, artificial smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.  Leans heavily against the laid out brick.  “I’m sure Ms. Mortan is vexed enough with me as it is for making you waste all this time at my bedside.”

 

Watson shakes his head, matches Holmes’s smile with an equally pained one of his own.  “You’re a fool,” he murmurs, running a shaky hand through his hair and down his face.  Adds brokenly, “And I’m an even bigger one.” Explains at the questioning frown on Holmes’s face, “I allowed my fears to control me.  Destroyed the best thing that happened to me because I let my imagination get away with me.  I was too afraid of what the imagined consequences of my actions, of _our_ actions would be.  Afraid of what you and I might lose should our relationship be discovered.”  He lets out a small, defeated huff.  Closes his eyes against the bitter burn of tears.  Breathes in, tasting the same bitterness on his tongue, at the back of his throat.  “Instead I ended up losing the only thing that truly mattered.”

 

Silence, heavy and uncomfortable, follows his whispered confession, and he wonders absently if any of what he just said made any difference anymore, if he didn’t make things worse.  Eventually it becomes too much, and he risks opening his eyes again, risks looking at Holmes, because he just needs… he _has_ to know.

 

Holmes stares back at him from underneath the messy tangle of too-long bangs, and there’s a dark whirlpool in his gaze, a dizzying turmoil of disappointment, heartache and regret.  “You gained safety,” he points out finally, his voice so brittle that it seems to splinter like glass on the very air between them.  “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

 

Watson shakes his head again, swallows down a tearful lump that threatens to choke him.  “The only safety that matters to me is yours,” he confesses, risking a small step forward, and feels his heart twist sharply inside his chest when Holmes flinches away from him almost imperceptibly, backing further into the wall.  “I’m sorry, I’ll let you be,” he murmurs, defeat settling over him like a heavy lead blanket, making his legs buckle under the weight of it.  “Just… just do me a favor as your doctor….” He licks his lips nervously, nods at the half-opened door to Holmes’s bedroom.  “Let me escort you to bed.  Please.  You shouldn’t be on your feet yet.”   

 

Holmes regards him silently for a heartbeat longer.  Then nods his acceptance, looking so tired, in so much pain all of a sudden that it’s all Watson can do not to pull him into his arms again and carry him bodily into the bedroom.  Instead he slowly crosses the distance between them, reaches out to put a steadying hand on Holmes’s elbow, intending to guide him across the room.  Holmes grips his forearm, staying the motion, meets Watson’s questioning gaze with a piercingly intense one of his own. 

 

“Tell me,” he demands hoarsely, thin long fingers trembling against the fabric of Watson’s sleeve.  “You said there was something urgent you couldn’t wait to tell me.  So tell me.”

 

Watson gapes wordlessly at him, his throat clicking dryly, the maddening beat of his heart roaring in his ears.  _This isn’t the time,_ he tells himself.  _It’s too late.  It won’t solve anything._   But he can’t back away now, caught in the sharp penetrating gaze of the whiskey-brown eyes like a fly in a spider web, the feeble grip of Holmes’s fingers burning holes into the skin of his arm.

 

“I love you,” he rasps out, feeling very much like a condemned man walking the plank.  “I love you,” he repeats, faintly aware of the hitch in Holmes’s breathing that oddly matches his own, “like I’ve never loved before… or will again.”

 

Holmes’s eyelashes flutter weakly, his eyes momentarily slipping closed.  And then the fingers on Watson’s arm curl inexplicably, twisting the fabric trapped between them, and Watson gasps in giddy surprise as Holmes’s lips close over his own in an awkwardly urgent, bruising kiss.  Moans with pleasure and need, bringing his other hand to cup the back of Holmes’s head, deepening the connection between them.  He doesn’t know what this means.  Can’t read Holmes’s intentions as well as he used to.  Just lets himself melt into the moment, hoping, desperately hoping, that this is not a goodbye.

 

All too soon Holmes pulls back, a small hiss of pain reminding Watson starkly of his less-than-stellar condition.  There’s a pinched look on his face, a deep crease cutting across the pale, sweat-dotted forehead – further evidence of the torment his still healing body is putting him through.  But the gaze he greets Watson with is soft despite the pain, and the small smile that tugs at his lips appears genuine, tinged with a bit of timid hope.

 

“I always believed that safety was overrated, Doctor,” he murmurs, leaning gratefully into the gentle support of Watson’s proffered embrace.  “Wouldn’t you agree?”

 

And his pale smile grows brighter when Watson responds unhesitatingly, “I would.”

 

***

 

Holmes kisses Watson on a Tuesday.  And it’s the first day of the rest of their lives…

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on tumblr at somethingjustsouthofbrilliance.tumblr.com


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